


Snakeskin

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-13
Updated: 2005-03-13
Packaged: 2018-12-26 16:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Post-Season 4.  Brian buys some boots and tries to communicate.  (Not complete, but reviews most welcome.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Coming in from the blazing high desert sun, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the small shop’s dim interior; a minute or two for his nose to acclimate to the cloying mixture of tanned leather, saddle soap, Neatsfoot oil. He was here to look, nothing else. Brian Kinney didn’t do cowboy boots. But the bootmaker was exclusive and renowned among the cognoscenti for finest work and priciest footwear. And Brian was nothing if not a label queen.

Having called ahead, he was welcomed by the wiry white-haired old man who ushered him in, then melted back into the shadows. Brian surveyed the shop, hardly more than a hole in the wall really, before gravitating to the far end where the boots were displayed. Only a dozen or so pairs, no warehouse sized inventory or fancy marketing here. Brian made his way down the rows of custom models, letting his finger tips lightly graze the ones that appealed most. He surveyed the sleek polished leather, shiny blacks, rich browns and oxbloods, sensual rough-outs, all intricately tooled. Toward the end of the display, he stopped dead at a pair of black snakeskin boots with exquisite tooling and silver tips. This pair simply took his breath way. He fingered the delicate and reflective scale of the skin, ran his fingers over the finely worked silver. “Real silver?” he turned to ask the old bootmaker. “How much are they?” 

“Yes, of course. Try them on,” the old man invited.

“I mean, how much for a custom pair like these? And how long does it take? I’m only here…well, a couple of days…”

“Please, try them on.”

Brian shook off his initial annoyance and complied, shimmying his feet out of the Prada loafers and rolling up his 509s to just below the knee. He pulled the right boot up by the tabs, surprised to find his foot slipping in easily. The boot fit like a glove. Hell, it fit like Justin’s ass. Like it was made for him. And, like his Justin, it was a thing of rare beauty.

“Try on the mate,” directed the bootmaker. “Walk around. New boots - you’ll have a bit of heel slip. That’s good. And you want them tight at first. The leather stretches. You’re trying them at noontime - just right. Your feet change size during the day. Break them in and you’ll see, they’ll get friendlier at bedtime and in the mornings.”

Brian couldn’t help but crack a grin at the bootmaker’s words. His thoughts never strayed far from Justin.

Brian slipped effortlessly into the left boot and walked around the small shop. The boots were comfortable, if a little snug. The heel was higher than he was accustomed to and did slip a little, just like the old man had forewarned.

“Who’d you make them for?” Brain inquired, wondering if the customer had never come back to claim them. “Or are they models?”

“Not these. No, Sir, these are one of a kind. Made them a couple of years ago. Threw away the last when I finished.” His eyes, pale and watery, squinted in memory as he grinned at Brian and went on. “Couldn’t make another pair like ‘em anyway. The skin is special. Wouldn’t find a piece like that again. One of my regulars brought it in and asked a pretty penny for it, too. Came off one of the Pueblos. Couldn’t help myself, had to make the boots. Had to work the skin right then. Always thought the right fellow would come along. They been just waiting here for you, I guess.”

“Well, that sounds like…a load of bull,” Brian observed, not unkindly. “But, if they’re for sale, and the price is right, I’ll take them.” He pulled off the boots and placed them on the counter, wiggling back into his Pradas.

“Price is right. Like I said, Young Man, they’re yours. Best deal in town. No charge.” He ignored Brian’s protests. “No, I mean it. I want you to have them. Just treat them well.”

Brian tried again to argue, but the bootmaker was buffing and wrapping the boots in newspaper and tying them with brown string. With a shrug, Brian took the package offered and held it in the crook of his arm as he pulled out his wallet.

“Won’t take your money, Son. Though I can see you have enough. These boots were never for sale. But, mind you, they do come with a word of advice.”

Brian looked into the bootmaker’s pale blue eyes and considered for a moment before nodding affirmatively. “What the fuck?” he thought. He sensed he could use wisdom from somewhere and found himself curiously compelled to accept it from this wrinkled old artisan. 

When Brian finally exited into the New Mexico Winter sunshine, mulling over his conversation with the bootmaker, it was mid-afternoon. Curling his long lean body behind the wheel of the green Corvette, he cranked up the volume on the CD player and pulled away from the curb with a screech. Down the road, he stopped for a cup of strong coffee, picked up a local newspaper, uncharacteristically checked his horoscope, then headed south to Albuquerque where he would pick up I-40 west toward LA, toward his own Sunshine.


	2. Snakeskin

It wasn’t the same; sleeping alone, tangled in cheap discount store sheets, flailed across the double bed in his little apartment near the studio. It certainly didn’t compare to nestling under the plush duvet, cuddled close to the man he loved. How he yearned for the oversized platform bed at home. Well, at the loft, Brian’s loft. But it was home to Justin.

Anyway, size wasn’t the issue. A bigger bed would only have added to his feeling of loneliness. It was bad enough he missed Brian like a motherfucker. And that the six months (maybe eight) was ticking by far too slowly. But now it had been nearly a week since they’d talked. The last time was Thursday. Today was Wednesday. Six days! And what was so weird , and so fucking worrisome, last time they talked, everything had been great. 

Like most nights, last Thursday’s call had lasted about 45 minutes and was, well…totally normal. Well, normal for a Brian and Justin conversation. The routine questions, the snarky replies. Brief exchanges of information on what their days had been like. A couple of sexy innuendos. A few laughs, interspersed with silences for when there were things to say that neither could put into words. And, at the end, the moments of awkwardness, as Brian might start to say something, then hesitate. And Justin would fill in with something chirpy to ease the good-bye. But that was all okay. It was their way of communicating. And things were going better than Justin had hoped when he first came out here. They had fallen into a comfortable routine. But now it had been six days, and nothing! 

Nearly a week without a call. Fucking Brian wasn’t answering his cell phone. The machine was picking up at the loft, and Justin had left a series of brief messages. “Call me.” “Miss you.” “Where the fuck are you?” And then, after a couple of days, the mailbox was full. And Brian still wasn’t answering his cell phone. But Justin kept leaving messages on the cell, ever more urgent, ever more annoyed and irritated, ever more imploring. “Is everything okay?” “Why don’t you call, you motherfucking-piece of-shit?” “Brian, please call!”

But, then, after the fourth day, he’d stopped…out of fear, of what? Aggravating his… partner? Hell, Justin felt plenty aggravated himself. Because - and here was the thing - the cell phone mailbox wasn’t full. Which meant Brian was retrieving the messages. And not calling back. Well, fuck him.

But, all the same, Justin was worried sick. Hell, even Michael didn’t know where his so-called best friend was. What the fuck!? Michael had called early Sunday morning to ask if Justin knew where Brian was. At first, Michael’s calling had pissed Justin off, even though he felt slightly vindicated it wasn’t just him that Brian was ignoring. But, as the potential gravity of the disappearance became apparent to both of them, Justin felt himself descending into a state of quiet panic. Still, it was reassuring to compare notes and learn both he and Michael had received weird text messages on Saturday afternoon. Michael’s had said not to worry. Justin’s had said “be there”. Be where? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

On the off-chance the message meant Brian wanted to call him at home, on his landline, Justin had stayed home on Saturday night. Consumed a whole Italian sausage and jalapeno pizza. Drank a bottle of California red wine. Willed himself not to fall asleep during a marathon re-run of South Park. It was one Saturday night he could have gone out partying with co-workers but instead found himself waiting anxiously by the phone like some silly co-ed. And nothing. No call. Fuck Brian. 

The first thing Justin had done on Saturday, after hanging up with Michael, was call the oncology center at the Johns Hopkins Medical Centers in Baltimore to see if Brian was registered as an inpatient. Maybe he’d gone to the doctor for his check-up and gotten bad news. Maybe the cancer had come back. Thank God, Justin’s little search had turned up nothing. That made him feel wonderfully relieved and angry at the same time. Where the fuck was Brian Kinney? This was a whole new chapter in the fucking Kinney Operating Manual that needed writing. That was for sure. Brian had never just disappeared before.

Sunday had passed with no news. On Monday, Justin called Kinnetik and talked to Cynthia. But both she and Ted were every bit as much in the dark as he and Michael. Ted didn’t let on, but he sounded annoyed; Cynthia was fuming. Brian had sent her a text message on Saturday as well. “Don’t worry shall return.” Well, that was something anyway. Justin tried to dislodge every horrible thought from his mind. Accidents, overdoses, beat up in an alley somewhere. But Michael had promised to ask Horvath to check the places…hospitals, morgues.

“This time, I am going to kill him,” Justin told himself. “He’s got no right to put me through this. To put us through this.” 

So, shit. Now it was Wednesday morning, and Justin was pissed off royally, and really, really worried. It gnawed at his mind, keeping him awake at night. He’d only finally drifted off to sleep a couple of hours earlier but bolted out of bed when the alarm went off.

He had to get up at 5:00 o’clock every morning to get to the studio by 6 a.m. Fuck this shit. He would never have signed on as Assistant Art Director for Rage: The Movie had he known he’d be leaving the apartment at 5:30 every morning and not getting home until after 8 o’clock at night with hardly a reprieve. This job sucked in more ways than one. And not in the positive, life-affirming way things sucked in the wee hours of the morning back home in the loft. Justin never thought he’d miss Pittsburgh so much.

He switched on the bedside lamp, tumbled dazedly off the edge of the bed, and headed for the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. No need for showering in the morning much these days. He hadn’t needed many morning showers since he’d left Pittsburgh, though he would never have admitted it to Brian. Man, the hours he was working made it impossible to meet anyone to trick with, much less bring someone home. Most nights, he just came home dog tired, took a quick shower, and crashed, too tired to jerk off even. 

Exiting the bathroom, he thought he heard a soft but rhythmic knock at the door. Who the fuck could that be, at this time of the morning? Since he didn’t have any friends in LA, the answer was no one. He decided to ignore it. Then, suddenly, his cell phone rang out on the bedside table, causing him to jump out of his skin. It was ringing out the tune he’d programmed for Brian’s calls. Fuck me, Justin thought. Six freaking days and now he’s calling at fucking 5 o’clock in the morning!

“Brian? Brian!? Hello? Where are you?”

“Hey. Sunshine. I know you’re there. Open the fucking door.”

“Brian? My God. Oh, my God. Wait. Hold on.”

Justin literally flew through the rooms of the small flat, unbolted the outside door, swinging it open with full force and gasping audibly at the sight of his lover. Brian was swaying a little unsteadily in the doorway, one arm raised, supporting himself against the doorjam. His long lanky form was backlit and silhouetted by the streetlights outside. Justin quickly switched on the light in the corridor, taking quick stock of the man he loved, the man he felt ready to murder of the spot. Two or three-day growth of beard, black jeans, tight black t-shirt, fucking amazing black snake skin boots with silver tips. God, Justin thought, Brian really is gorgeous. And – this was the best thing – Brian was wearing that slightly goofy expression that always made Justin’s heart beat a little faster.  
“Howdy, Pardner.” Brian drawled through a silly cock-eyed grin. Fuck, it would have been cute, if Justin hadn’t been so stunned to see him there at all. “Well, you gonna invite me in?”

“Fuck, Brian. My God. What are you doing here?” Justin’s broad Sunshine smile illuminated his exclamation. Not waiting for an answer, he grasped a forearm, put his hand on the back of Brian’s neck, and dragged him across the threshold, drawing him close, squeezing his lover’s lean body to his own, pressing his lips to Brian’s. Wordlessly, Brian leaned into the kiss, returning it with tongue, and teeth, and the taste of tobacco. Then, pulling away gently, Brian encircled Justin’s slight torso with his own strong arms, holding him tight and breathing raggedly into the blond hair for what seemed like an eternity.


End file.
